Twilight Tale
by Rafer
Summary: AU. Set in the year 3009 of the Third Age. What if Aragorn and Arwen had never plighted their troth on Cerin Amroth? Please r&r!
1. Chapter I

**Twilight Tale by Rafer**

Disclaimer: All belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien.

  


**Chapter I**

  
_"She is of lineage greater than yours, and has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. She is too far above you. And so, I think, it may well seem to her."_   
  
The Lord of Rivendell had read his heart, not when Aragorn had stood before Elrond in his chamber, but when he had so proudly announced his heritage to Arwen the Fair. Already then he'd realized it, without knowing she was a child of Elrond, or that she was of the Eldar. Yet he had left Rivendell with hope. The Nightingale, fairest of all Elves, had given her love to a mortal Man. Wouldn't Arwen, of Lúthien's line, do the same for him?   
  
Aragorn hadn't to find out. He would not see her again, nor dwell in an Elven-realm before many long years had passed, in which he had fought Sauron's evil, befriended Gandalf, and then rode alone again. Alone, until Lórien. He could clearly recall the gentle sound of the leaves, the warmth of the sun, and her beauty, in Caras Galadhon. A fate was chosen, when Arwen had looked out into the West, to the Undying Lands where she could live in bliss with her people, until the time of Arda came to an end. And then she had looked at him. At his Doom.   
  
Elrond had told him there was only one who could come between a daughter and her father, between the immortal and mortal. Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Valiant Man of the West. How valiant was he if he would have her forsake the Twilight? The Evenstar. No. She could not - would not be lost, not for him. Because he would die and leave her to the bitter fate Elrond had predicted.   
  
Aragorn raised his eyes to the grey peaks of the Misty Mountains. Despite his belief he had made the right choice, he wondered with every new dawn what could have been. If he had broken the heart of the elf-lord who had raised him as a son. Had a King that right? Perhaps. Certainly not Strider the Ranger. But then he had been neither. As Thorongil he had fought in the armies of Rohan and Gondor and so he returned to her, a Dúnadan at last. She had requited his love; when he could no longer let it be.   
  
"Come, Aragorn," Gandalf's voice stirred him from dark musings. "Take your leave of the Mountains. We must set on the road." Aragorn turned to the wizard, who stood leaning on his staff. His eyes, just visible under the brim of his hat, watched him keenly.  
"It doesn't do at all that a Ranger of your renown remains ignorant of Mirkwood, you know. Many wondrous things are hidden under its green boughs."  
Aragorn looked evenly at the wizard, but then an unexpected grin lit up his face. He found it returned by Gandalf, who was glad to see his mood lighten at last. The weight of unspoken grief had borne down hard on the Ranger.  
"I haven't had cause to, unlike you, Gandalf." Aragorn fell into step next to him. "You still owe me the full account of your adventures there."  
"Oh, I played but a small part in what happened."   
  
Still, Gandalf told him the tale entire, beginning with a knock on the door of a Hobbithole. The Sun was halfway on its westward journey, deepening the blue of cloudless skies, when he had gotten to Bilbo's daring rescue in Thranduil's dungeons. Suddenly Aragorn interrupted him with a cry of dismay and ran forward.   
  
A battle had been fought at the bridge of the Old Ford, and not too long ago. Surrounded by a host of slain wargs many times their number, lay Elves. They were of the silvan folk, arrayed in the colours of the forest in which they dwelt. But their garments were torn and slashed, their bows broken. Aragorn feared they had all fallen, and it seemed so until he knelt beside the Elf closest to the bridge. He lay next to the warg he had slain, in his hand still a knife. It was buried to the hilt in the beast's throat. A battle to the death, which the Elf too seemed to have lost. Blood stained his shoulder and side, where claws had ripped through his tunic. Though he had little hope, Aragorn put his head against the elf's chest. He looked over his shoulder at the wizard watching anxiously.  
"He lives."  
Gandalf closed his eyes, sighing sorrow and relief.  
"Do you know him?"  
"Since before the name of this forest changed, Aragorn." 


	2. Chapter II

**Twilight Tale by Rafer**

Disclaimer: All belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien.

  


**Chapter II**

  
The sons of Beorn had taken it upon themselves to guard the Ford near Mirkwood, the way to both the High Pass through the Misty Mountains, and the Old Forest Road, though their courage came at a price, the levy of a high toll of those seeking passage. But the sentinels Gandalf had expected to meet again weren't to be found. If there were more Wargs about than this slain company, the Beornings could be off fighting their own battles. Aragorn would search for their tracks as soon as he could; when he had tended to the Elf.  
  
Gandalf started a fire while Aragorn hurried to the river bank. The Anduin was shallow by the Ford, but her water was clear. He filled a small kettle. Now he reproached himself for not having brought healing herbs, but he had expected no harm to come to them during their journey. Since the Battle of the Five Armies, Orc nor Warg had dared to draw near the realms of their foes. Clearly their numbers had grown again to the point where their courage had returned; or a desperate cause had drawn them into the daylight they shunned.  
  
Beside him, Gandalf took a pouch from his grey robes. As he opened it, a sweet scent had Aragorn's eyes widening in amazement. Inside were the leaves of a herb he hadn't come across in a long time. It was hard to find even for a Ranger, and the greater was his surprise that Gandalf possessed it.  
"Kingsfoil!"  
"I was lucky enough to come across these. A small but great gift of the Edain."  
Aragorn suspended the kettle over growing flames. Fueled by Gandalf's magic, their fierceness had the water boiling almost instantly. Aragorn immersed the leaves, then took out cloth he kept in his satchel to clean and dress wounds. As he looked down on the Elf, Aragorn was overcome by a strange dread. He had tended to injured warriors before, but they had all been Men. Never before had he seen war wounds on an Elf. Growing up in Rivendell, he had come to believe the Firstborn were invincible. Living, breathing perfection. Nothing could touch them. Not even the dark of night held sway over them, for their eyes were ever open to the world. It was a sight which had long troubled Aragorn in his boyhood. How relieved he'd be to see that instead of a pale face, and closed eyes hiding elven-light.  
He looked to Gandalf. Sorrow was there, the like of which he had not seen since knowing him. He knew the wizard dearly loved the Elves, as he did all the races in Middle-earth he had come to protect. While his hope was in Men, and his joy in Hobbits, his dreams he had given to the Eldar in ages of the West long forgotten. Not until Aragorn was finished did he speak, and then it was only in answer to his question.  
"His name is Belegon, a mariner of great skill and a kinsman of Thranduil who journeyed with him from Lindon two Ages ago." Gandalf stood up. He gripped his staff with whitening knuckles. Aragorn knew what he was going to say. They had to see to the fallen. Send word to Thranduil. But they couldn't do it alone, they needed help and the closeset by were Grimbeorn and his folk. Gandalf looked sadly at the Elves. Then his gaze fixed on something behind the Ranger.  
"Aragorn, I have not your skill in tracking, but even I can see that these marks belong to neither Elf nor Warg."  
Aragorn turned and upon seeing the marks, sprang to his feet. Where Gandalf had pointed he saw indeed footprints that were strange to the battle, for they belonged to neither side which had fought. But Aragorn recognized them all too well and cold anger kindled at the sight of them.  
"Orcs!" 


	3. Chapter III

**Twilight Tale by Rafer**

Disclaimer: All belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, except for Belegon and Faelin

  


**Chapter III**

  
'They were not part of this battle.'  
Aragorn's fingers brushed over the track of an Orc foot.  
'These tracks were made before.'  
It was the only explanation the Ranger could think of why the bodies had remained untouched. Orcs would not have passed through here without stealing the Elvish weapons, even carrying off the Elves themselves as battle trophies, no matter if they had not done the fighting themselves.  
Aragorn rose. 'They are headed for the High Pass.'  
'Returning to their lair,' Gandalf uttered with disgust. 'Go, Aragorn, and do not be slowed by worry, I will stand watch. When you meet the Lord of the Beornings, tell him you are a friend of Gandalf the Grey who was a friend to his father.'  
Aragorn nodded and with one last look at the slain and the ailing Belegon, set off. Leaving all his belongings behind safe for for his sword, he ran as swiftly as his feet would carry him. The goblins made no efforts to conceal their tracks, preferring speed over stealth. They were a small group, Aragorn had counted only six distinctive tracks. He could overtake and fight them. But his purpose was not pursuit. 

The sky had darkened to a rich dark blue when he slowed to a jog. The Beornings had levied a heavy toll indeed. Aragorn walked forward slowlly and came to a stop before a row of spears standing erect. Adorning their iron tips were the foul heads of goblins. Aragorn passed them grimly and set upon the path to Grimbeorn's house. The sweet scent of honey wafted towards him. Beyond the large, impenetrable darkgreen hedge lay the bee-pastures of the lord of Beorn's folk. Aragorn knocked loudly on the wooden gate, which was as high and sturdy as the hedge. Grimbeorn took as kindly to visitors as his father before him. He belonged to the race of Men and his lifespan was no greater than theirs, but he differed as much from an ordinary Man as Aragorn. He was, like Beorn, a skin-changer. Able to take on bear-form, his temper was no less fierce than that of the animal. A great and terrible warrior Gandalf had called him, and the wizard was not prone to exaggeration. Proceed with caution, he'd warned quite seriously.  
The gate was pushed open brusquely. Aragorn looked up. Before him stood the largest man he had ever seen. Black eyes, bushy eyebrows and beard of the same colour, the latter blending in with a thick mane. His only garment was a sleeveless tunic held in place by a belt with a square iron buckle. Of iron as well was the huge axe, wielded by equally huge hands and a vision of those hands tearing off goblin heads flashed before his eyes.  
'Men from Lake Town have a care to tread the Carrock lest their business is trade,' he spoke with a voice deep and strong as a bear's growl. 'But you carry nothing except for a sword.'  
'No. I am called Strider, a friend to Gandalf the Grey.'  
That earned him a grunt, which Aragorn could not interpret to be good or bad. 'If not trading, what business do you have with Grimbeorn, Strider friend to Gandalf the Grey?'  
Quickly the Ranger related to him the attack on the Elves and the goblin trail. A fire ignited Grimbeorn's coal-black eyes.  
'Evil trails come to an end in the Carrock,' he growled. 'Wretched wargs and goblins.' He swung open the gate further and motioned Aragorn to follow. Barefoot he led the Ranger through the buzzing pastures. 'Something wicked going on in the mountains. The Eagles see them, coming out of their holes in the light of day. We make quick work of them, Beorn's folk do, but there's more and more of them. There's no letting the animals out alone anymore, found two ponies dead a couple of days ago. Wolves didn't get a chance to worry at them though.' He cracked a grin at Aragorn, displaying a great many teeth which too were much larger than average.  
A cobbled road lead to a clearing surrounded by a large hall and stables. Grazing in the clearing and the grassy fields beyond were horses and ponies with gleaming coats, well-fed and watching them with intelligent dark eyes. While Aragorn waited at the entrance of the hall, Grimbeorn grabbed a pouch lying on the far end of a large dinner table, near to the hearth.  
'For the Elf who lives. Put it on his wound, and it will heal quicker. Await the coming of my kinsfolk. They will bring the dead Elves to the Hall.'  
'We stand in your debt, Grimbeorn son of Beorn.'  
He got another grunt in reply, but this time there was a note of friendliness to it. They went their separate ways at the edge of the Carrock. Aragorn watched for a moment the receding bulk of the skin-changer. His words had confirmed the Ranger's fears. Something wicked was brewing in the dark deeps of the mountains.

If the wizard's eyes were not lost in the fire, they rested on Belegon's face. A Sindarin mariner of great renown, he had left the shores of Middle-earth and travelled inland out of loyalty and love - loyalty to his liege lord, and love for Faelin, the hand-maiden of Thranduil's queen. He leaned closer to the Elf when he saw awareness fill his eyes.  
'Rest easy, you have taken grave hurt,' he spoke in the Grey-elven tongue.  
Belegon winced and struggled to focus on Gandalf's face. 'Grey Pilgrim. What of...the others?'  
'They have fallen, my friend. I am sorry.'  
Belegon's eyes darkened to a stormy grey, laden with grief and anger, and urgency.  
'I must return immediatly.' He lifted a hand before Gandalf could protest. 'Not only to warn my lord. My lady is with child, and will soon give birth. No power in Middle-earth, not even yours, can hold me here.'  
Gandalf spoke sternly. 'I am well aware of your stubborness, Belegon, as you are of mine. You cannot go back without help, you are too weak. Fortunately a compromise is possible.'  
Without revealing Aragorn's identity, Gandalf told him he'd been travelling with a friend who he'd sent to solicit Grimbeorn's help to bring the fallen to his house, until the Elves could come for them.  
'When he returns he will accompany with you.'  
'What is his name?'  
'There he comes to tell you himself.'  
'Grimbeorn will not come,' said Aragorn, kneeling down next to Gandalf. Sweat moistened the Ranger's brow. He'd run like the wind. 'But he will send his kin. He was in a right fury he must appease first.' The Ranger looked in Belegon's grey eyes. Switching to the noble tongue, he said: 'Mae-govannen. Im Aragorn Arathornion.'  
A look of surprise passed over Belegon's face.  
'The name of Arathorn of the Dunedain is known to us, but we were not aware he was survived by a son, nor that that son speaks our tongue.'  
'I grew up in Imladris. I am the foster-son of Elrond Peredhil.'  
'Then you are twice blessed, that so noble a lord has raised you, and that knowledge of you and your lineage has been kept secret.' Belegon grimaced painfully, lifted his uninjured arm and clasped Aragorn's. 'Well met, West-man. I am Belegon son of Aergon.'  
Aragorn gripped his arm tightly, greeting, and instilling, willing strength in the Elf. He drew forth a pouch and spilled some of the contents in his hands.  
'These will help the wounds heal faster,' he said somewhat dubiously. He changed Belegon's bandages, replacing the athelas with sickly looking brown herbs.  
'Hopefully their workings are less foul than their smell,' said the Elf, wrinkling his nose. Aragorn grinned.

The Beornings came in the dead of the night, three of them with torches and carts to move the Elves. Too crude and coarse a transport, but nothing else was available. It was a sad, quiet procession through the night. In the hall, Belegon composed the bodies of his comrades, clasping cold, pale hands over weapons, across chests.  
When the first light of dawn appeared, he took his leave.  
He pressed his left fist strongly against his chest, against the injuries. _ 'Edavo i an awarthad, mellyn nin.'_  
_'Ú-moe edaved, Belegon,'_ said Gandalf. _'Boe bedich go Aragorn. Si aran ista hen.'_

to be continued....

Sindarin:  
_Edavo i an awarthad, mellyn nin_. Forgive me for forsaking you, my friends.  
_Ú-moe edaved, Belegon. Boe bedich go Aragorn. Si aran ista hen._ There is nothing to forgive, Belegon. You must go with Aragorn. The king must know of this at once.


End file.
